Last shot

Chapter 67

Walker left the Accord two blocks away in an alley. Heat stabbed down his side with every step. The bulletproof vest absorbed most of the blood, but at the armhole a wet crescent rimmed his army-green T-shirt. He wouldn't know how bad it was until he got to his room and took a proper look.

He was breathing so heavily he had to pause at the base of the stairs. Each jarring step caused the vest to scrape over the wound. Putting his head down, he almost collided with someone midway up. Kaitlin. She'd made herself up a bit with mascara and a touch of eyeliner. Sam stood at her side, looking bemused and slightly scared by her evident anger.

She said, "The least you could do if you drag us to a dirt fucking lot is show up. I would've left, but Sam insisted we-"

"You shouldn't be here." Walker sagged against the railing. Kaitlin saw the blood and scrambled to his side, purse slapping against her hip, her shoes clattering on the stairs. She fought the apartment key out of Walker's pocket and fumbled it toward Sam, who took it calmly. "Go get the door open. Go on."

She helped Walker upstairs and in. Sam locked the door behind them, then gave a dramatic glance through the closed blinds of the front window. The bed bowed under Walker's weight when he sat. He used his right hand to dig his Spyderco knife out of a pocket. Flipping it open with a jerk, he ran the blade under the front of his T-shirt. Kaitlin helped peel it off.

About four inches down from his armpit, a quarter-size entry hole marred the meat of his lat. The blood welling inside looked like black ink. The bullet had missed the protective ballistic composite by a thumb's width. There was no way, in the nighttime pivot-and-shoot, that Rackley could have seen he was wearing a vest. The bullet had sought flesh as lead often seemed to do.

Kaitlin helped him unsnap the vest. He'd hoped the back fabric would have caught the slug, but no such luck. There was no exit wound.

Hurwitz, Gregg — Rackley 04

Last Shot (2006)

Kaitlin got a ratty towel from the bathroom, wiped off the blood, and applied pressure. Sam watched with wide eyes.

She seemed light-headed. "This doesn't look good, Walk."

"Seen worse."

Walker took up the pressure so she could sit down. When he withdrew a tweezers from the medic kit in his duffel, she flattened herself over her knees. "I don't think I can."

He inserted the tweezers into the hole but had a tough time getting an angle. The metal tips digging around the swollen flesh was unpleasant. He said, "Kaitlin, just gimme a sec here."

Kaitlin started to stand up but fainted and fell back on the bed.

Walker said, "Well, there you go."

Sam said, "I'll do it."

"I don't think so."

"I hit level forty-four on Champions of Norrath. I think I can find a stupid bullet in a cut." His stomach looked more distended than before, bulging over his thin little-boy belt. He returned Walker's gaze, playing up the apathy.

Walker said, "God, you've got your mother in you."

"And you."

"Nah, not me."

The kid's face went slack with hurt-not an expression Walker had expected. He'd meant it as a compliment, but it was too thorny to explain, and he had a mushroom of lead grinding in his side. He offered Sam the blood-tipped tweezers, and Sam took them. He raised his arm, and the kid went to work with an impressive scientific detachment.

Kaitlin stirred, propped herself on her elbows to take in the tableau, and said, nauseously, "There goes my spot on the PTA."

She rose, keeping her eyes averted, and disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later Walker heard the sink running. Inside him metal clinked against metal-he wasn't sure if he heard it or just felt the timbre of the vibration.

Sam said, "Doesn't that hurt?"

"This? Nah." Walker braced himself as the tweezers made another pass at the embedded slug. "Pain's got fear, too. You can scare it outta you."

The bullet came slowly and not without friction. Sam dropped it in Walker's palm. A Troubleshooter special, served hot from a Smith amp; Wesson.

Sam stared at him with those crazy yellow eyes. "I know about pain."

"I figure. You're smart for an eight-year-old."

"Seven."

"Whatever."

Walker rotated his arm once, testing it. He leaned against the pillows and blinked once, slowly. Sam watched him intently.

Walker said, "I got nothing to offer you. I guess only the example I didn't set. But I can tell you this: Your mom didn't kill herself. Some men had her killed."

All the lines seemed to smooth out of Sam's face, and then tears were on his cheeks, though he didn't seem to be crying. Anger, sure, and some fear, but mostly relief. He sat down, head bowed, scratching at the dry patches on his bruised arms. "So you're gonna what? Kill them all?"

The toilet flushed, and then the sink water turned on again.

"Yup," Walker said.